


Break The Sky

by melonpaan



Category: Japanese Actor RPF, Johnny's Entertainment, NewS (Band), Sweet Power (Agency)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpaan/pseuds/melonpaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summertime and the crushing is easy. Yamapi and Maki, Tomohisa and Marina through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> For Saff. Always.

_i. Summer Days_

  
It’s the summer of 2003, a sweltering humid day, hot enough to melt popsicles into bright sticky colored messes dribbling down chins and onto clean white t-shirts. Later he will think this was the moment that changed his life; the fatal meeting, a convenient accident, perhaps.  
  
He meets her in front of a vending machine.  
  
Well, he doesn’t  _meet_  her, meet her. Not yet, anyway. That comes later. For now she’s standing in front of that vending machine, all sky blue tank top, khaki shorts and bright yellow flip-flops, thumb and index finger cinched delicately around a hundred-yen coin piece. Later he will remember the sweet scent of cherry, the chartreuse hair bauble keeping the bangs from her face, the pale white of exposed skin, and the haunting, slow hum of a voice kept in time by the tapping of a single yellow-sandaled foot.  
  
Later he will feel like quite the pedophile.   
  
For now he is just Yamashita Tomohisa, all bony arms and matchstick legs, clumsy and awkward at the ripe age of eighteen—and he is thirsty. And alone. He lost Jin and Yu somewhere between the supermarket and the renovating apartment complexes by the park. The collar of his t-shirt itches at the nape of his neck, his hair feels slick with oil, and he’s still  _it_ , and all he wants is a refreshing drink to cool off before searching for his dumb friends again—just whose brilliant idea was it to play a city-wide game of tag in the middle of a heat wave, anyway?   
  
What Yamashita Tomohisa does not want is to stand behind some indecisive little girl with short black hair in her sky blue tank top and khaki shorts and bright yellow flip-flops, humming incessantly as she moves her coin from one drink to another, occasionally breaking the melody to mutter something indistinguishable under her breath.  
  
He clears his throat.  
  
She doesn’t notice; coin still roaming back and forth between a dark green can and a pink one decorated with strawberries.  
  
He clears his throat. Again.   
  
She lets out a startled gasp and he thinks,  _finally_ , is already ready to accept her apology with a gracious nod of his head—only it never comes. And now her finger is inching past the pink can toward a blue one with white writing. And she is _still_ humming.   
  
Irritated, he leans in closer, chin hovering just above her shoulder, close enough to hear the whispered words from her lips, close enough for cherry to linger on his skin.  
  
“ _Pocari, pocari, float away into the sky_.”  
  
The girl was crazy.  
  
He’s about to move away when she stills, stops singing, turns her head to face him and then they’re nose-to-nose and his breath catches in his throat and suddenly he forgets to breathe. Her eyes are chocolate brown.  
  
“You’re,” she trails off, mouth forming a pretty pink ‘o.’ He winces, takes a step back because he  _hates_  getting recognized off the street and really doesn’t feel like playing nice and signing autographs for frivolous little fangirls in sky blue tank tops and khaki shorts and bright yellow flip-flops when all he  _ever_ wanted was a simple drink and—  
  
“Really skinny.”   
  
 _Excuse me?_    
  
“What?”  
  
“Here.” She hands him her shiny one-hundred-yen. “I think you need this more than I do.”  
  
He finds his mouth bone dry, can only take the offered coin without a single word in return. Only watch as the strange girl wanders off, _floats_ off, even, as if she had tiny wings hidden neatly beneath that sky blue tank top, flapping endlessly in the summer breeze. When she disappears around the corner of the street, he feels a strange, hollow ache in his chest as he turns away, slides the coin into the vending machine, hears it jangle all the way down until it comes to a clattering halt.   
  
He’s never felt so insignificant in all his life.  
  
The machine whirs impatiently, mockingly, and he frowns, smashes an arbitrary button on the panel. A can drops into the drink slot.   
  
Iced black coffee.   
  
He makes a face and tosses it into a garbage can.   
  
He can’t stand the stuff.

 

*

 

He meets her, for the first time, a few days later. Maybe a week. Maybe two.  
  
She’s asleep on a park bench, splayed out with the soles of her bare feet hanging off the edge. She’s wearing a lime green t-shirt and light-washed jeans with rips in the knees—the kind that can’t be bought. There’s a thin paperback novel covering her face, something foreign translated into Japanese— _Kandeedu_? He doesn’t actually recognize her, not yet. A pair of yellow flip-flops is strewn haphazardly beneath the bench, hidden between blades of wilted summer grass.  
  
The sight irritates him beyond all rational reason.   
  
“Oi,” he says, leaning over her form and knocking on the top of the bench. “You shouldn’t sleep so earnestly out in public. Bad men might come and do strange things to you.”  
  
She stirs, lips smacking together sleepily as a hand comes up to slide the novel off of her face. He starts, once again in much too close proximity to warm chocolate eyes. She sweeps the sleep off her face with the back of her hand and he wonders if maybe she recognizes him, too.  
  
“Who are you?”   
  
Or maybe not.  
  
“I’m Yamashita Tomohisa,” he says peevishly, running a hand through gold streaked hair,  _and I’m kind of a big deal_.   
  
She blinks again, and her mouth forms a familiar pretty pink ‘o’ as she sits up and rests the novel beside her. “Mountain reed?”

“ _What_?”  
  
She stretches her arms over her head, feels with her feet for yellow flip-flops, then stands and walks a short distance to pick up a medium-sized branch from off the ground. She comes back and squats down on her legs, making careful broad strokes in the dirt.   
  
“Mountain and reed, right?” She adds an illustration next to the characters before standing back to admire her work. He shakes his head, doesn’t remember the last time he’s had to correct someone on the spelling of his name, replies, “No, it’s mountain and—”  _Inferior_.  _Below_. She waits patiently, earnestly, big brown eyes focused on his. He looks toward the sky.

“What’s your name?” If she notices the abrupt change of topic, she doesn’t mention it.  
  
“Marina.” She dusts her hands off on the front of her jeans and extends one toward him. “Hara, Marina.”  
  
Later he will understand the importance of this exchange.  
  
For now she asks, “Thirsty?”   
  
He can only nod as her hand slips away from his and she wanders off toward the vending machine, digging in her pocket for two one-hundred-yen coins that he suspects will be shiny.  
  
 _Marina_ , he thinks as he watches her from the bench,  _sounds like home_.   
  
She returns fifteen minutes later, though he doesn’t notice the time in the least, hands him a blue can and slides into the seat next to him. It’s a can of _Pocari Sweat_. His lips curl into a small smile.  
  
“ _Pocari, Pocari, float away into the sky_ —huh?” he mutters wryly, holding the can away at arm’s length.

She glances at him with round eyes, and when she lowers the can from her lips with both hands, she’s smiling. “ _Like the clouds in the summer breeze_.”  
  
It tastes like summer on his tongue.

 

*

  
It isn’t a friendship, not really, not  _quite_ , but as the summer waxes on he’s not sure what else to call it when he finds himself learning more and more about the girl named Hara Marina. The girl with the bright yellow flip-flops and chocolate brown eyes and a smile that could melt popsicles like the sun.   
  
Marina, he learns, always smells sweet—like some kind of fruit. He learns he rather likes the way she smells when they’re shoulder-to-shoulder and she’s almost-but-not-quite leaning against him, close enough for the wind to send strands of hair toward his face, tickling his nose with the scent of watermelon or strawberry or citrus as she tucks her knees under her chin and reads with book held close to her face. And he doesn’t even  _like_  fruit. 

He learns that her favorite band is EXILE, her favorite sport is basketball, and her favorite animal is a cat. Hobbies? Polishing coins, spacing out, and collecting photographs.

Oh, and reading.

“ _Candide_ ,” she explains of her previous novel, “was written by Voltaire. It’s a French satire of religion and government and Leibniz’s optimism.” When his only response is to blink at her, she laughs and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Um, it’s funny. In an ironic sort of way. I think you’d like it.”  
  
He disagrees, has never liked reading nor ever understood reading for _fun_ , but takes the book when she offers to lend it to him, lets it collect dust on top of his complete collection of Dragon Ball comic books. The only books in his shelf.

 

*

 

“ _Lolita_?” he asks of the next novel she brings with her, a thick hardcover that looks so out of place in the sun.  
  
“Mm.” She doesn’t look up once from the book on her lap. He often wonders what it’s like to have that kind of commitment to something. Anything. Even just paper and glue and string. It seems tiring. “By Vladmir Nabokov. It’s about this old man who falls in love with a little girl and what happens afterward. It’s fascinating being able to look into the mind of such a character.”  
  
He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and sits as far away from her as possible that day.

 

*

 

“ _Pride and Prejudice_ was written by Jane Austen. It’s a love story set in the Victorian age, a time when class and upbringing affected, well, everything, but _especially_ notions of love. It’s also about overcoming—”

“Pride and prejudice?” he asks, yawning already.

“Yes. But it’s not as boring as you make it seem.”

“Mmhm.”

“It’s _not_!” She crinkles her nose. “Oh, hush and just let me read this part to you: _Elizabeth_ _’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. ‘How could you begin?’ said she. ‘I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?’_ ”

He wants to tell her that he doesn’t think it boring, never thinks it boring when she’s speaking so energetically about the things she loves. He wants to tell her that her voice relaxes him, soothes him after hours and days and weeks of dancing and singing and _smiling_ for people he will never know and never meet and never care about. People who will never know him. He wants to tell her all these things, but he’s already nodding off against her shoulder.

“ _I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun_ …”

 

*

 

“Something new today?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at the small brightly colored paperback in her hands as she settles onto the bench. She opens the tab of the _Pocari Sweat_ left on her customary seat and when she takes a sip her eyes twinkle: _Thank you_. He replies with a shrug of his shoulders; it was his turn to buy.  
  
“Today I’m rereading one of my favorite books,” she declares after she’s finished, setting the can in the space between them and flipping to the bookmarked page. At his mild glance, she lifts the book so he can see the cover.  
  
“ _Howl’s Moving Castle_? It doesn’t sound like one of those boring classics you usually read.”  
  
“They’re _not_ boring,” she sniffs. “But you’re right, it’s not. A _classic_ classic, anyway. This one’s a fantasy story about magic and wizards and witches and shooting stars and scarecrows and romance and—”  
  
“Moving castles.”  
  
“You have to stop judging books by their titles alone.” She sticks her tongue at him. “Well. Maybe it sounds a little childish, but it’s really fun. I think you’d like it.”  
  
He smiles for her sake, remembering what happened to the last book she said _that_ about.  
  
“I think you’d like the male protagonist especially. His name is Howl, well—he actually goes by a few odd nicknames. He’s funny one, always throwing tantrums and wearing ridiculous clothes and spending hours in the bathroom dyeing his hair different colors when black would suit him just fine.”  
  
“Oh?” He wonders what kind of girl would fall for such a character.  
  
“But actually he’s rather charming and clever, only brave when he’s pretending to be a coward, perhaps, but he’s not a bad person.” She pauses artfully. “Also, he’s very, very handsome.”  
  
“Ah.”

“And he has no heart.” The last bit is said cheerfully.  
  
“What? Then how is this a  _romance_  story?”  
  
She bites her bottom lip to keep from grinning, though her eyes are already crinkling at the corners. “Well, you’ll just have to find out after you finish  _Candide_ , now won’t you?”

 

*

 

“People call me Yamapi,” he mentions one day, sitting cross-legged on the bench as she balances barefoot on top of it; her book of the day lays forgotten on his lap, spine cracked straight down the middle. He fingers it idly.  
  
“People?” She flails her arms to keep balance and he extends his toward her out of habit. She steadies herself before taking a few more steps.  
  
“Friends,” he clarifies, pausing awkwardly,  _and fangirls._ _And everyone._  “Sometimes they call me Pi for short.”  
  
“Oh.” She steps down onto the bench and sits cross-legged facing him, knees pressing into the top of his thigh. “What’s ‘Pi’ stand for?”  
  
“Pink.” He regrets the instant the word rolls off his tongue.  
  
She gives him an understandably funny look. “You mean your closest friends call you— _Pink_.” It’s not a question.  
  
“Well.” Another pause. “Yes?” _Now why did Jin ever think_ _that_ _was a good idea_?  
  
Her lips quirk in the manner they’re prone whenever she’s  _particularly_  amused. “So, Pink-kun, then? Can I call you _Pink-kun_?”  
  
 _You can call me Tomohisa_. “Sure, I guess. Would I be able to stop you anyway?” he asks, even though they both know the answer.  
  
“Nope,” she replies, even though they both know the answer. She laughs and blows a raspberry at him. “Pink-kun.”  
  
Really, it’s a step up from “you,” or “hey,” or “mountain reed!”  
  
In time he will start to call her  _Mari_.  
  
For now he contemplates the smell of coconut in the air and the feel of her legs stretched over his lap as she dives back into a world of cracked spines and musty pages and characters painted in ink. Black sandals sit neatly on the grass next to bright yellow flip-flops as the day fades into night.

_ii. Just a Girl_

  
Toward the end of August, Jin finally speaks. “You never spend time with me anymore, Yamapi. It’s like you don’t even care. About me. _Me_! Your best friend  _ever_!” He’s using his most pathetic whine, but sympathy is lost when his face remains parked in front of a small portable fan.

Yamapi briefly looks up from a yellowed-and-nearly-falling-apart issue of _Dragon Ball_  volume 25 before looking back down and flipping a page. “Jin, you’ve come over for dinner every night for the past  _week_.” A pause. “And a  _half_.”

“So you admit it!”

Yamapi rolls his eyes in response. “All you seem to do lately is stare at my  _younger sister_ , anyway.”  
  
Jin throws a pillow at him.  
  
“Please. Rina is like, what, sixteen?  _Fifteen_? That’d be  _skeevy_. I like my girls older.” He sits up and cups the air in front of his chest with his hands. “And  _curvier_. Mm. Pi? Pi, what’s wrong? Why do you look so red in the face?”  
  
“ _Nothing_.” Yamapi coughs, closing the comic with a snap. “Okay,  _fine_. You wanna go to a movie or something tomorrow? We can call Toma.”  
  
“It’s like I finally have my best friend back!” Jin cries, scrambling onto the bed to tackle Yamapi into a bone crushing hug. They end up a tangled heap on the ground, as usual.  
  
“You never  _lost_  me, Bakanishi.”

He thinks he smells the faintest trace of summer fruit in the breeze.

 

*

 

The next day they decide on the newest movie that just came out, the one they’ve been dying to see since forever ago, the one starring their _senpai_ from V6. It’s called  _Cosmic Rescue_.  
  
It will become the worst movie he’s ever seen.  
  
It isn’t that they get there mere minutes before the first showing because Jin misread the movie listings and also had to stop at the bathroom three different times from the restaurant to the theaters, it isn’t that they don’t have enough time to buy any snacks, or that the three of them have to split up to find crappy seats so close to the screen, and it isn’t even that the movie itself is pretty plotless and unfeasible and generally a little lame, _senpai_ or not.  
  
What makes this movie the worst movie he’s ever seen shows up a quarter through the film, though he can’t tell at first through the haze of debris and flashing lights. It’s later, toward the end, when he finally gets a good look at her face and hears her voice and thinks, _no, it can’t be couldn’t be doesn’t even make sense_ but when the credits roll he finally understands the growing dread in the pit of his stomach. He remains glued to his seat only at the end of the movie, even when Toma and Jin are tugging him by the wrist to leave because “the movie’s over, what are you waiting for?”

He’s not sure, but he doesn’t have to wait much longer.  
  
 _Mochizuki Aya.................................................................................................................................Horikita Maki_

 

*

 

He stays at home for the next two days, brooding and thinking and warily inspecting his bookshelf and generally not eating very much at all. On the third day he finally rolls out of bed, slips on a pair of jeans and a clean white tee, hops into his black sandals, and heads out the door.  
  
He finds her asleep. Blissfully asleep and unaware,  _Dragon Ball_  volume twenty-four resting gently above a lazy pink smile. He spends a moment, just a moment,  _a moment that will later become an eternity_ , taking her in; all pale skin and messy black hair and a pair of yellow flip-flops he’s so sure is lying somewhere beneath her makeshift summer bed.   
  
 _Who are you?_  he wants to ask, playing the movie reel in his head over and over and over again. Mochizuki Aya. Horikita Maki. Hara Marina. Maki. MakiMakiMaki _Mari?_    
  
“Pink-kun?” A yawn, and then the same sleepy, blinking chocolate eyes he’s come to expect. That he knows.

That he  _thinks_  he knows.  
  
“Thirsty?” she asks, setting the comic book down beside her. There is no question of where he’s been these past few days, no hint of suspicion, no hidden deception, just a jangling pocketful of coins as she walks barefoot toward the vending machine. She walks back balancing two blue-and-white cans on top of her head, sits down next to him and feels with her feet for her flip-flops, lifts her legs straight out and wriggles them on with her toes. She offers him the can and the monotony of familiar, comfortable gestures overwhelms him.  
  
He snaps. “Who  _are_  you?”

“What do you mean? I’m Ma—”  
  
“Ki? Ma _ki_?” he continues, driven hysterical by the look of  _realization_  in her eyes, a silent affirmation of the truth she  _knowingly_  hid from him. “Horikita Maki? Is that your real name, Miss— _Miss Movie Star_?”  
  
“I—”  
  
“Was anything you  _ever_  told me true? Were you just playing with me, laughing at how oblivious I was all the time? Who are you  _really_?”  
  
There’s a moment, just a moment he spends wishing he could retract his words, rewind and retrace his steps and play it out differently, properly. A moment that will later become an eternity.  
  
“I’m Marina,” she says quietly. “The same Mari I’ve always been.”  
  
And he wants to believe her, would like nothing more than to believe that she’s Mari, the girl who smells like fruit and reads books and spaces out and likes collecting bugs and sleeps with her toes toward the sun. He wants to believe that this is the same Mari he met in front of the vending machine, the same Mari who had no idea who he was and still has no idea who he is and cares even less now that she knows; the Mari who liked him for  _him_ , for being Yamashita Tomohisa— _Pink-kun_.  
  
He wants so hard to believe that this is still Mari, just Mari,  _his Mari_ —but she’s not. She’s Horikita Maki, budding silver screen starlet.  
  
 _She’s everyone else’s Maki_.  
  
He shakes his head and runs, leaves the girl who smells like sun-ripened cherries and started reading  _Dragon Ball_  on his recommendation and makes up strange little songs for them to sing and sleeps blissfully unaware as the world spins above, runs and runs and doesn’t ever look back.   
  
And moments collect into eternities. 

 

*

 

It takes a whole day of reflection and contemplation before he finally realizes how much of an overacting and over _re_ acting idiot he’s been, caves and thinks he should call and apologize immediately—only to realize that they never exchanged numbers. Frustrated, he throws on some clothes and nearly trips out of his sandals in his haste to the park bench, spends every second thinking and rethinking his words, inwardly wondering  _why it all matters so much_.  
  
When he gets there, the sun is beating on his face and he’s sweaty and sticky and out of breath and thirsty. When he gets there, there is only an empty can of Caplis lying on top of withering grass and nothing more.  
  
It makes sense. Theirs was a relationship of convenience: soda from the vending machines, basketball at the park, ice cream from the vendors, shared bentos from the convenience store across the street. Nothing serious, just convenient.  
  
His mouth is dry and his pockets are empty; the sound of shiny one-hundred yen coins chime in the wind.

 

*

 

Toma finds him later that night. “Why are you sleeping out here?”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”  
  
“Come on, let’s get you home,” Toma says gently, tugging at his arm. Yamapi allows himself to be pulled up and dragged all the way home.  
  
“Toma?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“I’m thirsty.”

 

*

 

Later he realizes that he’s missing volume twenty-four from his otherwise complete collection of first edition volumes of _Dragon Ball_. When he buys a new one to replace it, the pristine white volume sits awkward and out-of-place next to the older, yellowed books. He frowns and kicks it under the bed.

 

*

 

“Cheer up, Pi,” Jin tells him after a few days, when he and Toma are over his house for dinner and a rousing tournament of Dragon Ball Yamapi doesn’t care for. “She’s  _just a girl._ ”  
  
“Yeah, forget all about her,” Toma agrees, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “At least you’ll always have me!”

Toma makes kissing motions at his cheek, despite Jin gagging in the corner, and Yamapi smiles. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” Jin gags again. “Say, Yu’s coming back from Barcelona tomorrow. You know what that means.” Twin Cheshire grins slide onto their faces. “Tokyo Tag!”

Yamapi laughs and feels better than he has in weeks.

Later that night, when Toma and Jin are fast asleep and snoring on his bedroom floor, Yamapi picks up the volume of Dragon Ball he left under the bed so many nights ago. When he places the book into the space left on his shelf, the color matches perfectly. He’s never been the best at symbolism, but thinks he understands at least this much. His friends are right.

How time goes on.

In the next month, NEWS will be formed as a temporary unit.

In another year, NEWS won’t be so temporary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_iii. Imitation Life_

He meets her again, _her_ for the first time, in autumn, so many years later. Two years later. Too many years later. Horikita Maki, that is. He hasn’t even looked at the cast list, is too busy concentrating on the fact that he will have to spend an entire three months shooting not only a drama, but also a promotional video, with Kamenashi Kazuya. He has to _sing_ with Kamenashi Kazuya. Yech.

He recognizes her immediately, despite the messy shoulder-length hair and drab school uniform several sizes too big. It would be harder _not_ to recognize her: there isn’t one television or movie screen her face hasn’t graced.

Later he will wonder about his part in propelling her further into stardom, farther beyond his reach. Later, when he’s honest, he knows it would have happened with or without his presence.

For now when the director gathers them all together and introduces them one-by-one, he catches her eye and her mouth forms a familiar pretty pink ‘o’ and wonders if she could possibly maybe recognize him, too.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Yamashita-san.”

Maybe not.

But maybe it’s better this way. Not everyone gets a second chance to make a better first impression.

At least he’s not as skinny as Kamenashi.

 

*

 

For the first few days he avoids her when he can, takes his meals alone and whenever they have free time finds a secluded spot to read over his lines until he gets them perfect. He’s not used to this kind of character, not used to playing someone so— _so_ _uncool_.

He’s never known her to be so quiet either, has somewhere, in the very back of his mind, possibly maybe sort-of hoped she would make the first move. That she would walk right up to him, guileless and carefree, and offer him a can of soda. That her big brown eyes would light up and her lips would curl into a smile as she said his name, _Yamashita-kun. Pink-kun. Tomohisa._ But she barely says two words to him. Perhaps Horikita Maki and Hara Marina are different people after all.

When he finally works up the nerve to talk to her it’s six in the morning and he chickens out, sidesteps her dressing room and turns the corner toward the vending machines. The bright neon light illuminates the corridor and the machine rumbles, asking, “Coffee or Tea?” in curly English letters. A neon lightbulb.

When he arrives at the curtain of her dressing room he has two cans of iced black coffee in his hands. He rehearses. _Hi—no. Hello. No. Hi, Horikita-san—kun?—chan? Hey. Hi. Hello._

He opens the door, lips parted in anticipation. _Hi_.

She’s not alone. Kamenashi is eating breakfast on the floor next to her.

“Ah, Yamashita-san.”

“Morning,” Kamenashi says through a mouthful of tofu.

“Coffee!” Yamapi squeaks.

“Yes?”

“I mean, I brought coffee. Iced black coffee. I thought you might want one—cause it’s early and all,” he finishes. Lamely.

“Actually, Kamenashi-kun brought tea—and I don’t really like the taste of black coffee.” She hesitates, as if trying not to sound ungrateful. “But thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

“I’m okay too,” Kamenashi deems it necessary to add, though he was never even offered any. “Oolong?”

“No. I like coffee. I’ll just drink both of these.” He laughs in a high-pitched falsetto and downs both cans one after the other, despite the itchy feeling of staring eyes.

“Wow, Yamashita-san must really love iced black coffee.”

His left eye twitches.

 

*

 

He’s jittery for the rest of the day, off-camera and on. After his first scene, Iwamoto-san claps him on the back and smiles. “That was great. That energy! That spirit! The adlibs were great, too! Whatever you’re doing now, kid, do _exactly that_ for the rest of the series.”

In time he will grow to hate the taste of iced black coffee.

 

*

 

It takes a week. Just a single week for him to see them together. _All the time_. Talking. Laughing. Reading lines. It takes Kamenashi a week to have what he’s been missing for two years. A week that feels like an eternity.

She seems more at ease with _him_ —more like Mari.

It’s yet another reason to hate Kamenashi, but what Yamapi hates more is the fact that he can’t blame him.

 

*

 

Later when they’re sitting off to the side alone, waiting for the Kiritani family scene to finish, she asks, “Do you hate Kamenashi-kun?”

The question catches him off guard and he almost drops the script right out of his hands. He clears his throat and doesn’t meet her eyes, knows he shouldn’t. “No, why would you think that?” He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as bitter aloud as it does in his head.

“Well, it always seems a bit awkward when you’re together. Like Akira doesn’t really _like_ Shuuji. It just doesn’t seem right.” There’s a moment of silence. “You don’t ever eat with us, either.”

When he finally turns to look at her, her brown eyes are probing and she’s close, but not too close, knees swimming in her oversized plaid skirt and ankles crossed delicately.

“Yamashita-san?”

The next day he calls Kamenashi out onto the roof.

“Look, I don’t like you and you don’t like me, and I know things are awkward cause we had that fight and never really made amends. But. We’re going to be working and singing together from now on. So. No hard feelings?” It takes sheer willpower to offer his hand, but when Kamenashi takes it, grip cool and confident, with a smile and a simple “Of course,” Yamapi can’t help but feel he’s lost.

He starts sticking to Kame’s side soon after that, practicing overt physical affection every chance he gets, on-camera and off.

 

*

 

“Wow, you and Kamenashi-kun are really good friends after all. I’m relieved. Sorry if I insinuated anything.”

“Of course—I mean, not at all.”

 

*

 

But he still takes his lunches alone, because lunchtime is the one time Kame will always, without fail, be with _her_. Not that he’s bitter or jealous about it. He takes a bite of his curry bread and tries to concentrate on the script in his hand and the volume of _Urusei Yatsura_ on his lap and not the look in her eyes and _you don’t ever eat with us, either…Yamashita-san._ He falls flat onto the roof and faces the sky, tries not to imagine them together, side-by-side, bentos and drinks still in their plastic bags from their daily trips to the convenience store together. Alone.

There are footfalls on the stairwell.

“Eh, that’s amazing, Kamenashi-kun. You’re really smart—ah.” He feels her gaze on him, pensive and repentant. “I’m sorry, are we intruding?”

“Not at all.” His script is a wadded cylinder in his hand. He drops it into his lap and takes another bite of bread.

“But I’m not as smart as this guy,” Kame says thoughtfully. “He goes to Meiji.”

Yamapi wants to reply that it’s no big deal, it’s not like he’s doing very well anyway and the only reason he went at all is because his mother wanted him to, but her eyes are wide with admiration and somehow his lips become sealed on that matter.

In time they will find themselves eating all their meals together.

In time he will consider them friends.

For now he answers all her questions, tells her everything about his experiences at college and doesn’t even take joy in the fact that Kame has been pushed into the background for this one day.

Well, not excessive joy.

 

*

 

She celebrates her seventeenth birthday on set and apparently everyone _but_ him knows it’s her birthday. When he hears some of the girls talking about having baked a cake for the occasion he curses, runs straight out of the school building and all around the nearby area to find something suitable for a gift. He ends up with a single can of Pocari Sweat from the vending machine.

Kame gets her a cute phone charm with a little jingling bell.

The phone charm is attached to her phone by the end of the day; his can of Pocari Sweat remains on the table in her dressing room until the end of filming.

 

*

 

They’re eating together when she lets out a sudden little gasp. Kame falls out of his chair and Yamapi jumps to his feet ready to do the Heimlich, but then there are big brown eyes peering up at them and they both know she _wants_ something.

“So, you’re not choking,” Kame ventures. She shakes her head and Yamapi lets out a sigh of relief.

“It’s just, I was reading the script for the next episode and Nobuta has a catchphrase to give her confidence.”

“Ah, I remember that part,” Kame replies. “What about it?”

Yamapi frowns. He hadn’t gotten that far into the script yet.

“Well, there’s a note in my script that I should come up with some kind of—movement for the phrase, but I have no idea what to do. So, I thought I would ask you both for suggestions.”

 “What was the phrase again?” Yamapi asks casually.

“Nobuta power _chuunyuu_.”

 “Ah, I got it!” He pulls her up by her arms and instructs her to stand with her feet under her shoulders. “Now follow me carefully. Nobuta power… _chuunyuu_!”

“E-eh? Wait, how did you move your hips like that?”

“It’s just one, two—but ah, remember to move your arm.”

When she does it perfectly, Kame claps his hands. “It looks good like that—Akira teaching Nobuta.”

“I like it,” she agrees, sending Yamapi a heart-stopping smile. For a split-second he feels even with Kame after the failure of a birthday gift. “Thank you, Yamashita _-san_.”

And then he feels miles behind.

 

*

 

“Yamashita-san?”

_Call me Tomohisa_ , he wants to say. He says instead, a twinge petulantly, “There’s no need to be so formal. We’ve been filming for over a month after all.”

“Then…Yamashita-kun?” The syllables roll over her lips. He likes the sound of it. “Iwamoto-san is asking for you—um, what are you doing? Taking a nap in the sun?” There’s a note of amusement in her voice, a faint glimmer of a girl he once knew.

“Yeah.” He can’t help the way his eyes close as she speaks.

“Well, we should get going. Iwamoto-san wants to finish filming before the sun goes down.”

“Just five more minutes, Horikita-san. Please?”

Silence. He wonders if she will leave without him, contemplates getting up but finds it much too comfortable here, right now. With her.

“Well, if we’re not going to be so formal.” Her words fade, replaced by a tinkle of bells and somehow he knows she’s seated next to him, hands on the edge of the bench, legs swinging back and forth with rhythmic pitter-patter. If he opened his eyes, her face would be first in his line of sight; if he stretched past his face his arm would graze her lap and he could know with certainty that she was really here, right now. With him.

He doesn’t want to risk it, says instead, “Maki-chan,” and the words taste foreign on his tongue.

Like betrayal.

“You haven’t been getting enough sleep, have you?”

“Not for a while.”

There’s the faintest trace of cherry in the wind.

 

*

 

The running gag from Iwamoto-san becomes this: Maki-chan is the official Yamashita Finder. She always manages to find him no matter where he ends up alone with his script and comic books. No matter where he falls asleep. If it’s urgent, she gently taps him on the shoulder and calls his name until he wakes and they both leave to film. If it’s not urgent she lets him sleep for a few minutes, sits nearby with her knees tucked comfortably under her chin, reading with her script held close to her face. She’s the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes.

He never tells her that he’s already awake at the jingling of her approach.

 

*

 

The ride to the hospital is his last scene of the day and her hand is soft and small and warm in his. Against his cheek. The warmth lingers long after he lets go.

Afterward, Iwamoto-san rushes up to him and slaps him on the back, _hard_. “This is your best acting yet, Yamashita-kun,” he enthuses, still slapping him cheerfully on the back. “You really seem like you’re in love.”

_Love_ , he thinks, rubbing his cheek absently with his hand.

He’s still thinking about it on the way to his dressing room. As he rounds the corner, he hears Kame’s voice mutter, “You didn’t have to,” and stops short.

Maki is placing a small square box into his hands. “I wanted to. I’ve been meaning to repay you for that luck battle.”

“You’re the one who ended up unlucky, though.”  
  
“Well, still.” She laughs. “It was nice of you. And it looks like you’ve lost weight. You should eat more.”

Kame’s tired face softens with a smile. It grows wider when he opens the box. “Squid.”

“It’s from a place near my house that has really fresh sushi. You said you liked squid the best, right?”

“Yeah.” Kame isn’t looking at the bento in his hands.

“I’ll take you sometime,” Maki’s voice fades as Yamapi backs away from the corridor and heads toward the door, bumping into Mizuta Fumiko on the way out.

“Whoops. You okay, Yamashita?” She is, off-screen, decidedly not like Bando, especially when her heavy makeup has been wiped off. She’s almost beautiful.

“I’m okay. Why are you coming back here so late?”

“I just realized I forgot my bag on set.”

“I see.” Then he remembers Kame’s face and Maki’s voice and blurts out, “Say, Mizuta-chan, how old did you say you were?”

“Twenty-one, why?”

“Let’s go out for a drink.”

“Oh? An invitation from _The_ Yamashita Tomohisa? That’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Interested?”

“Just let me grab my bag.”

They have ramen and sake at an outdoor stand and she tries, valiantly, to engage him in conversation, but all he can think about is her smashing Maki’s face into the ground and he loses his appetite, pays the bill only when she raises an eyebrow at the check.

It doesn’t stop him from going home with her that night.

 

*

 

_It’s too painful for me._

_Nobuta becoming everyone else’s is painful._

_I want Nobuta to be all mine. I don’t want her to be seen by others._

 

“The way you said that just now sounded really real,” Kame says quietly when the cameras stop rolling.

“You sound like Iwamoto-san. I swear if you slap me on the back I _will_ punch you.”

Kame laughs, but it doesn’t sound quite right. “Hey, Yamapi. Maki-chan is—a really nice girl, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you like her?”

“What? Of course I like her.” There’s a heavy lump sinking into the pit of his stomach.

“I mean, do you _like_ her? If I—would you mind?”

What can he say? “Of course not, Shuuji.” He waggles his fingers and pecks Kame on the cheek with them. “Kon!”

 

*

“Say, Erika-chan. How old did you say you were?”

“Seventeen. Why?”

“No reason.”

 

*

 

For the last few weeks of filming he avoids her. _For Kame’s sake_ , he tells himself, though he suspects it may be a lie.

He doesn’t nap. The sound of tiny jingling bells keeps him awake.

They sound like one-hundred yen coins.

He doesn’t eat with them, either, barely has any appetite. He hates convenience store bentos and drinks from the vending machines and curry bread especially.

And then it’s the last scene and all three of them are gathered around the table with a chocolate cake between them. A touching imitation of a Christmas miracle. A shower of flower petals and confetti to commemorate the end.

Later he will wonder about the significance of Shuuji receiving Nobuta’s present, about irony and symbolism and fate and everything else he doesn’t really understand and maybe doesn’t want to.

For now he leaves for his dressing room, stopping only for congratulations and hugs from cast and crew alike. He packs his few belongings from the dressing room and slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at his reflection in the mirror and tries to smile. When that fails, he quickly shoots himself with his thumb and index finger. “Bang. Don’t look so down. Remember, she’s just a girl.”

Just a girl he works with. Worked with. Just a girl he knew long ago who smelled like fruit and had the warmest smile and melting eyes and read her summer days away. A memory long forgotten.

Only he hasn’t forgotten. Not once.

Only she’s _not_ just a girl.

And suddenly he realizes why it all really mattered. Still matters. Will never stop mattering until he does something about it. So he does. Drops his bag and runs, runs and thinks _no, not this time, he won’t be like Akira. He won’t just give up._

He won’t let this moment become an eternity.

She’s not alone. He can hear Kame talking softly and her laughter in reply and when he parts the curtains he sees them sitting close together. Then the smile drops from Kame’s face and he stops talking, says suddenly, seriously, “Maki-chan,” leans in and Yamapi closes his eyes and lets the curtain fall.

He can’t blame her. Even Akira chose Shuuji in the end.

 

*

 

Later, when he’s drunk out of his mind, he flips his phone open and dials her number. It rings one, two, _threefourfive_ times and he’s about to give up but then there’s a click and a soft, “Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Yamashita? This is a surprise. Didn’t you say you never wanted to see me again?”

“Changed my mind. Dinner?”

“Pick me up in ten.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_iv. In Action_

 

He meets her again in winter. He doesn’t manage a glance at the cast this time either; mind occupied with other things in addition to this drama being his first leading role ever.

His manager is thrilled with the developments, thinks it will be great for his career in the wake of recent scandals, riding on the success of Akira. Yamapi wishes his manager would stop talking about it— _everything_ —and vows to stay away from iced black coffee.

At least he’s playing a cool role again.

On the first day of filming he walks into the studio, script in one hand and cup of hot oolong tea in the other, and sees her laughing with Sugita Kaoru. Her eyes catch his and her lips blossom into a cherry pink smile and he promptly spills hot tea all over the front of his white button-down shirt.

“Y-Yamashita-kun, are you all right?!”

Later he will realize that he has, in one fell swoop, both ruined his most expensive shirt _and_ first impression on the set of his First Leading Role Ever.

For now all he can think is: _She remembers me._

 

*

 

Later comes sooner than later, and as he’s frantically rubbing at the front of his shirt with a damp paper towel, shaking his head at his clumsiness and stupidity and _oh my god the embarrassment_ , there’s a light rap near the entrance of his dressing room. “Come in,” he says absently, still replaying the scene over and over in his head and the look on her face and his utter lack of cool and—

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

The shirt slips from his fingers and he crashes into the dresser in his haste to turn around.

“Um.”

“ _Okay_ —I’m okay.” He tries not to clutch at his shin as he speaks, despite the painful promise of bruising.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I was just—” he trails off, looking at the pathetic mess of tea-stained fabric lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Maki follows his gaze. “I thought you might be having trouble, so I brought you something.” She takes off her shoes, enters the room, and makes a little noise of fanfare as she steps in front of him, producing a small bottle from behind her back.

“Vinegar?”

“White vinegar,” she clarifies. “If we mix it with a bit of water and let it soak on the stain for about thirty minutes, it should be good as new.”

“Really?”

The stain dissolves in twenty.

“Well, that’s it. Just let it dry on your table.” She places the still-damp shirt in his hands. “We should get going, too. Filming will start soon.”

She heads for the door and he realizes with a start that he would have traded his favorite shirt for another ten minutes. Even just five. “Yeah, I guess we should.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She turns around with a brilliant smile and produces, this time, a thin can from her sweater pocket.

_Iced black coffee_.

He laughs and hopes his eye isn’t twitching. “Isn’t it—a little cold for this?”

“But, you said it was your favorite, right?”

He finishes the drink in front of her eyes.

 

*

 

He doesn’t try to avoid her this time around, doesn’t feel the need to. They’re comfortable. Safe. Friendly-like. Even if she _is_ his main love interest in the drama. Love-like interest.

In time they will start having lunch together, just like before, just the two of them.

The eternal optimist in him savors her company, whispers traitorous little hopes about fate and destiny, first encounters, second chances, and third-time’s-the-charms. The realist in him counters: _She’s with Kame._

He does his best to shake off the optimism, but then the director yells “Action!” and he’s holding her in his arms, staring at her from across the train tracks and even the realist in him knows he’s fighting a losing battle.

_Then what kind of ending are you hoping for?_

*

 

“Yamashita-kun has finally grown up.”

He almost chokes on his ramen. “Hey, you know I’m older than you, right?”

Her lunch remains untouched, eyes glued to the television screen as _Lunch Queen_ continues to play

“ _Oi_.”

“Hm? Did you say something?”

“How would you like it if I watched embarrassing videos of _you_ in front of you?”

She laughs and he distracts the humming in his heart by slurping down the rest of his noodles. When her laughter stops he finds her staring rather intently at him.

“What? Do I have noodle on my face?”

“No, I just think black hair suits you better. Definitely.”

 

*

 

Koyama is one of the first guest stars of the series; he’s cast as Kurosaki’s long lost friend-turned- _akasagi_. Yamapi suspects his manager had something to do with it, can picture the pot-belly laugh and cheerful “It’ll be good publicity!”

Seeing Koyama brings up issues he’s been avoiding in the presence of Maki. What can he even say? “Sorry for leaving you behind,” doesn’t quite feel right.

It never has.

Luckily they’re behind schedule and there’s barely enough time to say “hello” let alone discuss any _feelings_. Feelings lead to crying, and Koyama tends to blubber. But in the music store when Satoshi hugs Kurosaki with tears running down his face, Yamapi is very aware that Koyama isn’t acting.

He wishes he could say the same.

 

*

 

“It’s been a while.”

“Mm.”

Koyama pours tea and Yamapi thanks him before taking a sip.

“How have you been?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.” He sounds wary. Weary. “I’m excited by your leading role. I’m going to watch every episode! And _not_ just because I’m guest-starring in this one.” He chuckles softly.

Yamapi tries to reciprocate the sentiment, but manages only a thin-lipped smile.

“Kusano—is okay. He wasn’t for a while, but he’s getting better. Used to the idea. We’re all getting used to it, if not over it…”

“I’m glad.”

“She’s cute.”

“Who?”

“Maki-chan.”

Yamapi chokes on his tea.

“Your type, huh?”

He places the teacup down harder than intended and tea spills everywhere. Koyama springs into action with a bundle of napkins before Yamapi can blink.

“I think that’s the most reaction I’ve gotten out of you all day.” He’s laughing again, but it sounds hollow, almost sad. Yamapi’s not sure what he should say.

“Sorry, I haven’t had the chance to miss any of you,” doesn’t quite feel right, either.

 

*

 

“You must have been happy to see Koyama-san.”

“Mm.”

“He’s your bandmate, right? He seems—hm, energetic might be an understatement. I can see why you two are friends.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve always seemed more like a listener.” He doesn’t reply. “Is something wrong? You’re not eating.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.” She sounds disbelieving, but doesn’t press the issue. He’s not sure whether to be thankful or not.

“Say,” he says finally, after an endless stretch of silence. “I’m going to be on tour starting next week.”

“Oh?”

There’s no other reaction, though he tells himself he wasn’t expecting one.

“Yeah. I’ll still come back for filming, though. But we—probably won’t see much of each other for the next month.”

“Mm.”

He tells himself he wasn’t hoping for more.

“Shouldn’t you be more excited about it then?”

“What?”

“Well, you’re going to be all together for the first time in a while, right?”

“It’s more of a goodbye tour. After all that’s happened.”

“But if it’s the last time, doesn’t that mean even more you should make the most of it? You’re the leader, right? You should set a good example.”

He doesn’t have a reply.

 

*

 

He’s the last to arrive on the first day of the concert. Backstage Koyama and Shige talk quietly amongst themselves, Masuda fidgets in place, Tegoshi looks helpless in front of the mirror, and Ryo sits silently in the corner with a sour look on his face. Silence magnifies the absence.

He clears his throat and everything stops: Koyama and Shige stop talking, Masuda stops fidgeting, Tegoshi looks up from the mirror, and the expression on Ryo’s face lessens. Still, no one says a word. It takes a moment to realize they’re waiting for him to speak.

He’s the leader, right?

“I know it’s weird without them,” he starts, licking his lips nervously. “It hasn’t been the same in a while and we don’t know when or if it ever will be.” _If we’ll even be back._ “But that doesn’t mean we should give up right now. If anything it means—it means even more that we should make the most of it. It means we should get out there and work extra hard. For them, too.”

There’s a moment he fears his words won’t get through to them.

Then Ryo snorts. “Looks like you’ve finally got some life in your eyes.” He takes Masuda by the collar and drags him over to Koyama and Shige, muttering, “Okay, shows us the dance routine for the third number. You two especially need it.”

“Hey!”

“Well, he has a point.”

Familiarity brings with it a sense of relief. Only Tegoshi doesn’t move an inch.

“What’s wrong?”

Tegoshi opens his mouth, closes it, and then smiles weakly. “Kusano used to help me with my makeup.”

“Right.” Yamapi’s smile feels just as weak, but he tightens the corners of his lips. “Right. Here, let me help.”

 

*

 

A concert is scheduled on his birthday and after two encores he’s on a train back to Tokyo for filming and the only thing keeping him going at this point is the slight chance of maybe possibly seeing her. 

She’s not on set. After his last scene the crew rolls out a large cream cake with fruit on top. The cream is also pink. He can’t stand it, barely manages to finish the large piece he’s been served before excusing himself to the bathroom. He makes it home after midnight. His mother is already asleep and his sister is nodding off in front of the television when he enters.

“You’re late,” Rina mutter-yawns. “There’s leftover barbeque in the fridge and some rice in the cooker. And chocolate cake. Well, one slice of it.”

“Gee, thanks.” He makes himself a plate of rice, beef, and some pickled vegetables—in case Rina snitches to their mother—and plops the piece of chocolate cake right on top with everything else.He joins Rina on the couch and wrinkles his nose at the sight of himself— _Akira_ —on the screen.

“ _Nobuta! I like you!_ ”

“Why are you even watch—”

“ _I like the books that you read, Nobuta_.”

Rina’s fast asleep.

“ _I like every place that you are, Nobuta_.”

He sighs and slides the blanket over her.

“ _I love them_.”

How things remain unchanged.

He spends his birthday—the day _after_ his birthday—watching an age-old drama and eating cold rice, beef, and cake.

Everything tastes like chocolate.

 

*

 

After three more days of _not seeing her_ and weakening resolve and growing listlessness, he finds a card and a shiny gold wrapped parcel on the table in his dressing room. The card is handmade, simple white cardboard folded in half with a black construction paper gun pasted on the front. It’s shooting glitter and confetti. The inside reads: “Sorry I couldn’t be there. Lately we keep missing each other on set. But I hope your birthday was sweet and ended with a…BANG!”

His lips curl as he opens the parcel: a toy water gun—and a can of Pocari Sweat.

He spends the entire night trying to find an open toy store.

 

*

 

He’s reading his script when a small drop of water splashes onto his forehead. Azure skies with no clouds in sight. And then sun.

“Got ya.”

“Not fair, I didn’t know you were coming in today.”

“Then I guess you haven’t been reading the script.” She smiles and aims again, this time at his heart. “Bang. You’re dead. Guess it was easy to catch Kurosaki after all.”

“ _Definitely_ not fair, I don’t even have my—” A gun is thrown and it slips out of his hands twice before he manages to secure it.

“You were saying?”

“I was saying— _bang_!” It hits her gun-wielding hand and she fakes a howl of pain.

In time it won’t be uncommon for the camera crew to stand by as the stylists diligently dry them off with electric hairdryers.

For now he asks, eyebrows raised and pistol ready, “Thirsty?”

 

*

 

The Spring Tour comes to an end after three last encores. Backstage, all six members—only six members—end up in a circle. It’s a formation they’re too used to, only the circle is smaller than they remember. No one speaks.

Yamapi takes his cue again. “So. I guess this is it, then.” He coughs and clears his throat, stalls for time as he searches his brain for even the tiniest nugget of hope. He fails.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be. I mean, we can still go out to a late dinner. Maybe karaoke?” Koyama’s voice grows louder and more earnest with every word.

“I—have a really big exam in a few days.” Shige doesn’t look at Koyama. None of them can.

“I’m…behind on school work, too.”

“Osaka.”

“It’s Shoko nee-chan’s birthday today.”

“Filming,” Yamapi adds last, unable to remove his eyes from the ground.

“Y-yeah.” Koyama laughs. “I guess that was a long-shot.”

Masuda sniffles.

“Oh don’t be such a baby,” Ryo grumbles, but then Tegoshi also sniffles and Ryo stays silent. Shige looks at him pleadingly, but Yamapi doesn’t know what Shige thinks he can do about it.

He tries. “But this doesn’t have to be the _end_ end, you know? This isn’t—the end.”

Koyama manages a watery smile. “Because we are NEWS, right?”

“Right.”

When they disperse, for possibly the last time, Yamapi finally understands that he doesn’t want this to end.

He and Koyama take the same train back. It’s filled with drunken salary men and tittering girls in outlandish clothing. He stares out the window to avoid all eye-contact.

“They work you really hard, huh?”

“It’s to be expected when—” _You’re the lead of a drama? You have to sing the opening theme song by yourself? You are a solo artist? Not that you could know._ “I mean.”

“No, I understand. I just hope you’re getting enough sleep.” He sounds uncharacteristically quiet. “Are you?”

“I sleep when I can.”

“That’s good.”

Koyama is still upset— _how could he be happy_ —and Yamapi wishes he knew what he could say to make it all better, some assurance that NEWS will be back, could actually come back, but Ryo has Kanjani8 and there’s talk of Tegoshi and Masuda having some other project and—Koyama lays a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s my job to worry about making everyone feel better.”

He smiles and Yamapi can’t take it, blurts out, “ _Sorry_.”

Koyama stares, thin eyes wide and blinking, before suddenly dissolving into a wry chuckle. “Save that for when you actually have something to apologize for.”

The words are a relief to hear, even if he should have expected them. Toma said the very same thing once before, after all. With an added punch to the gut. And an, “If you ever say something _that_ stupid again I won’t hold back the next time.”

He’s wondering how well Toma and Koyama know each other when Koyama blindsides him with an innocent, “So how are things with Maki-chan?”

The train screeches to a halt and he almost falls over. “What do you mean _things_?”

“Well, you said you liked her.”

“I _never_ said that,” Yamapi interjects quickly. Then adds, after a quiet moment. “She’s with Kame, anyway.”

“KAT-TUN’s Kame?”

He nods.

“Strange, she never mentioned having a boyfriend when I talked to her.”

“What— _when_?”

“We talked a little when I was on set.” Koyama smiles. “So you do like her.”

Yamapi doesn’t reply.

“Why don’t you go for it then?”

“Go for—”

“What if she likes you, too.” He glances out the window. “Ah, here’s my stop. I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.”

And when Koyama pulls him into a sudden hug before he leaves the train, Yamapi finally realizes that he’s not acting either.

 

*

 

His phone beeps early in the morning. A text. Another text.

 

_I’m back from vacation!_

_Don’t I even get a hello?_

_Where are you?_

_I thought you finished your concerts already._

_Yamashita! Call me now or I’m going to get really angry._

And more. He stopped checking after the first few, threw his phone across the room and regretted it the instant he remembered it wasn’t turned it off.

The upside is that she doesn’t call. He calls; she texts. It’s their relationship. It was. Or still is. He’s not sure anymore. Right now all he wants to do is go home and pull the covers over his head and wake up to a time when all he had to worry about was stupid sweaty Tokyo Tag and not getting popsicle stains on his shirt and having enough money to get a drink from the vending machines and—

There’s a light rapping near the entryway, followed by a whispered, “Yamashita-kun?”

His eyes open and his body moves into a sitting position, arms resting in-between splayed legs, back slumped against the wall. “You can come in.”

Maki pokes her head after a moment. “I saw your shoes. You’re here early.”

“I’ve never been late.”

“You have.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “I mean, I just wasn’t expecting you to be on set so early. Yesterday was—”

“I was here last night, too. I just slept on the floor.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll just—”

“Save that for when you actually have something to apologize for.” He smiles tiredly. “I said you could come in, didn’t I?”

“Are you sure?”

His phone beeps.

“Yeah. I’ve been awake for a while, anyway.”

She takes off her shoes and enters the room, staring at the mound of clothes on which his phone rests, unassuming. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

“It’s not important.”

“I see.”

He follows her gaze until their eyes meet and he promptly looks away. He regrets it—letting her in, looking into her eyes, having to be near yet so far away. He decides to run. “We should—”

“Something’s really wrong, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“When something’s wrong you usually try to pretend nothing is. This time you’re not even pretending. You’re just running.”

“I never—”

“You have.”

Even the realist in him knows he’s lost.

“The concerts are over.”

“Yes.”

“NEWS—might be over. For good.”

She doesn’t reply.

“I just—didn’t know how much they actually meant to me until, you know? Like, I _miss_ them. It. All of it. And I start regretting not taking advantage of the time we had together. Not trying hard enough to keep us together— _I’m the fucking leader_. I was.” His voice cracks. But what he regrets most of all he can’t tell her: wanting, hoping, wishing so desperately to get rid of a group he never asked for. Wanting to be alone.

Getting his selfish wish at the price of his _friends_.

And without another word he’s in her arms and she’s soft and warm and smells of cherries and _she understands_ —even without him trying to rationalize his actions or make himself sound like a better person and _it’s too much_ —

“We should get going, right?” He hates the way his voice cracks.

“Filming can wait. For ten minutes, even just five minutes, please allow yourself to grieve, Yamashita-kun.”

So he does.

 

*

 

“Sorry. I’m an idiot. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. I’m _so_ so—”

“What was it you said? Save that for when you have something to apologize for?” She smiles against his hair. “Those are good words.”

“But it’s been longer than five minutes. Everyone’s going to be upset.”

“It’s okay. I’ll go ahead and smooth things over with the crew. Take a few minutes to wash up.” She doesn’t move.

“Maki-chan?”

“You have to let me go, Yamashita-kun.” Her voice is a whisper in his ear, tantalizingly close.

“What? O-oh.” Somehow his hands had found their way around her waist. He releases her and the room feels so much bigger. Colder. Emptier. And all he can see is her retreating back.

“M-Maki.”

“Yes?”

He doesn’t know why he called her name, only knows that he doesn’t want her to leave, but he has to say something now. Anything. “How’s Kame?”

_Except that._

He regrets these words most of all and it feel like an eternity of breathless anticipation as she turns around and blinks at him roundly. “Kamenashi-kun? I thought you worked at the same company. Wouldn’t you know better than I would?”

And he can’t help it: hope floats.

 

*

 

His first solo performance on Music Station is held in the same month. The spacious dressing room is more oppressive than comforting. Silence magnifies the absence. He’s glad for the racket next door; if not for that he would be left only with his thoughts.

He’s never felt more alone in his entire life. Even with what seems to be a whole animal hide on his left shoulder.

He thinks anything would be better than this.

He’s wrong.

Later that night he locks himself in his room and pulls the covers over his head, replays the scene and the stage and his _clumsy_ hands and _clumsier_ mouth over and over and over again.

Johnny-san tells him it wasn’t that bad. “You! Big impact yo!”

This doesn’t make him feel any better, so he texts the one person who might understand. “Kame, I messed up the lyrics.”

After a restless night, he receives a reply in the morning, a simple, “Ah. So two have become one.”

This, surprisingly, does make him feel better.

 

*

 

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was _horrible_.”

“It—could have been better.”

“ _Maki-chan_.”

“Ah, I mean, well. Look at it this way. You had your first performance alone and you made a huge mistakeand now nothing will ever be that bad again!”

“My mother said I was a disgrace.”

“You know she didn’t mean it.”

He tries to smile but decides he likes sulking better, draws his knees up to his chin and closes his eyes. “It’s really lonely as just Yamashita Tomohisa.”

When he finally looks at her, Maki’s eyes are glazed over, faraway; it’s the look she gets when she reads.

“Maki-chan?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Hello, Earth to Maki-chan, _I’m_ the one sulking here.”

“What did you say your bandmates’ names were?”

 

*

 

“This looks stupid.”

“Will you stop dismissing things so quickly? I worked really hard on this.”

“But it’s so—gold and glittery.”

“You _like_ gold and glitter.”

“No I don’t!”

“Well you wear a lot of it.”

“ _They make me_!”

“They’re making you this time, too.”

“Huh?”

“This is the jacket your costume designer put together. I just—asked him to add a little something extra.” She pulls the left sleeve flat for him to see.

“YNKMKT?"

“Yamashita, Nishikido, Koyama, Masuda, Kato, Tegoshi. The names of your band members, right?”

His eyes widen and his heart starts humming in his throat. “M-Maki-chan. This—”

“I figured this way would be a little less lonely.” She offers him a small smile. “Oh, and take a peek at the inside.”

The inside of his jacket has a tiny ‘U’ and ‘K’ sewed onto it. “For Uchi and Kusano,” she adds when he can’t find the words.

“Maki-chan, I—you—”

“Just do your best.” She lays the jacket over his shoulders. “For all of them.”

 

*

 

His next performance on Music Station goes much better. He’s still nervous, but every time he runs a hand over his left arm, he feels a lot less lonely. It also helps that V6 crashes his dressing room and kick up a general fuss, effectively silencing the mantra of _disgrace disgrace disgrace_ running through his mind.

Then Kame appears partway through his performance and once he gets over the shock and starts dancing the choreography to _Seishun Amigo_ , Yamapi realizes that he is no longer nervous. He also can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night. 

They have dinner after filming ends, him and Kame, just the two of them. Like old times but not quite.

“Nice hair.”

Kame tosses his ponytail over a shoulder as he takes a seat. “Nice jacket.”

“Jealous?”

“Of course.”

They share a grin.

“Thanks for coming today. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s nothing, I’m just glad I didn’t make you mess up again.” He laughs. “But actually you should thank Maki-chan for that. I ran into her yesterday and we ended up having lunch.”

“Oh?” Yamapi’s heart drops into wobbly knees. So that’s where she had disappeared.

“She said you were still really nervous and mentioned how close my studio was to TV Asahi. It gave me the idea to hijack your stage tonight.”

“Oh.”

 

*

 

They have lunch the next day, him and Maki, just the two of them in the midst of the outdoor set hustle-and-bustle. The days are growing warmer and he appreciates the sunshine.

“I heard you had lunch with Kame yesterday.”

“Hm?”

“He said you ran into him coincidentally.”

“Oh! Right.”

She is very clearly avoiding his eyes and he fights the growing smile on his lips. It’s a futile battle. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

His smile just grows wider. Life has never been more picture perfect.

In the corner of his eyes he sees Abiru Yuu talking to the camera man, fluttering her eyelashes and giggling girlishly when he makes a comment. While the camera man rubs his neck in embarrassment, Yuu glances over and catches Yamapi’s eye. _We. Need. To. Talk._

A shiver runs down his spine and Maki asks if he’s sick.

“I’m fine, we should get ready for filming,” he replies, trying to clean up his lunch and get Maki to leave as soon as possible. The plastic bento box slips from his fingers and he knocks over his juice can when he tries to retrieve it, sends it rolling and clattering onto the ground. Maki offers it to him with a smile.

“Windy today, huh?”

He snatches the can without looking at her— _don’t look at her_ —and picks up her plastic remains as well. “You should—go on ahead. I’ll throw these out.”

“I can help—”

“ _No_. I—just remembered I have to make a phone call.”

“Okay.” He feels her gaze on him one last time before she finally leaves.

Yuu is still staring at him when he glances across the set, lips curled but jaw stiff. To move or to wait. Call or text. The _click-click_ of stilettos on concrete is his answer.

“Yuu.”

“So _she’s_ cute,” Yuu purrs, staring after Maki’s retreating form. “In a dull sort of way. I guess they didn’t want her to overshadow you.”

He tries not to take the bait. “What do you want?”

“Is that any way to speak to your girlfriend?” When he doesn’t answer she tuts disapprovingly. “You haven’t been returning any of my texts. Stupid me, I thought something might actually be wrong.”

“I’ve been busy with filming and performances and guest appearances, you know that.”

“Hmm.”

“I told you we can’t be together as often when I have work to do. You know what the _Jimusho_ said—what Johnny-san says.”

“But it’s not just about the _Jimusho_ , is it?”

“What—of course it is.”

“You used to tell me that nothing could keep you away from me. That you were going to marry me one day. That Johnny could go to _hell_ for all you cared.”

“So I grew up.”

Her eyes blaze to life, lips trembling and fingers twitching at her sides. “ _Excuse_ me? _You_ grew up? Who do you think started this in the first place? Who do you think you are?”

“Yuu, we shouldn’t be having this conversation, not here—”

“Oh, am I being too immature for Mr. _I Grew Up_? I am _ever_ so sorry.”

“ _Yuu_.” He places a hand on her arm and she slaps it away.

“ _Don’t touch me_!”

He complies when he notices that everyone on set has simply—stopped. Yuu stares with red, wet eyes, hands over her mouth.

“Did you grow past the point of needing me?” It’s a faint whisper against the wind, a crack in a façade born from the limelight, and something in his heart stutters and remembers why he began to like her in the first place, why he began to love her, or at least thought he loved her. A girl he once knew.

“Yes.”

“I never want to see you again.” Her voice is deathly quiet, and when she looks at him with eyes so full of disgust something inside of him breaks.

What he regrets most is not the way they ended things or the scene they’ve created or even the look on Maki’s face, no, what he regrets the most is how much it _really_ doesn’t matter. For the first time in his life Yamashita Tomohisa isn’t sorry.

And somehow it doesn’t seem fair.

He approaches her first, passing her by on the way to his dressing room. He still can’t manage to look her in the eye.

“Are you—”

“I guess I just got dumped.”

“I’m sorry.” Maki hesitates, before placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you upset?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” _Not yet_.

 

*

 

_She_ avoids him this time, ducking out of sight every break until filming begins anew; thinking, perhaps, that he needed more time to grieve. He only barely manages to catch her on the last day of filming—he’s never been as good at finding her.

Yet even after a month of planning, he _still_ has no idea what to say.

“Yuu and I go back all the way to high school,” he starts, not knowing where else to begin.

She doesn’t reply and he takes it as a sign to continue. “To be honest our start wasn’t, well. She was with someone else at the time.”

“So you stole her away?”

“I didn’t,” he starts to say, but can’t bring himself to rationalize it anymore. Not to her. “At least, it didn’t seem like that at the time. We were just friends. She would text me sometimes and I would spend the rest of my nights just—texting her. I mean, that’s all we did. Sometimes I tried called her, but she never picked up, so we always just ended up texting. I didn’t realize that the only reason she never called was because—she had a boyfriend. I didn’t know that the first time I kissed her.

“So we started going out. Just coffee at first. Then some dinners. Then hours became days and karaoke and holding hands became months and seeing her everyday and—I finally met her boyfriend after three months. Well, actually I heard them arguing in the living room and when I got there he blew up and told her to choose and she—she chose me.”

He watches her as he speaks but her face betrays nothing.

“So we began to date—and I guess it never really bothered me that she was seeing someone else before because we were young and never said it was exclusive. But maybe it just never bothered me because—I _won_. And she was strong and stubborn and passionate and unpredictable and beautiful and that was all I needed back then. Even if we fought every day about stupid things, we always made up in the end and sometimes, honestly, I think both of us liked fighting just so we _could_ make up.

“I don’t even remember how it ended the first time. Or any other time. All I know is that it usually ends with one of us saying, ‘I don’t ever want to see you again.’ But it’s always a lie. Somewhere along the line we just kept coming back to each other, especially after getting our hearts broken by other people. Like the entire time apart was just another big fight before we made up again.”

“It doesn’t sound like a very adult relationship.”

“It’s not. I guess it’s more like a habit. Hard to break, you know?” He lifts his cigarette as if to make a point, makes sure not to blow smoke in her direction.

“So last time—whose heart got broken?”

He inhales deeply; the smoke in his lungs makes one last lie just a little more bearable. “You know, I don’t think I remember.”

“I see.” She looks conflicted, eyebrows knit together and lips pressed tight. “Yamashita-kun—”

But the rest of her sentence goes unsaid. A stagehand requests their presence and Maki bolts up. He doesn’t move.

“Yamashita-kun? What are you waiting for?”

_What_ was _he waiting for_?

“Let’s go out.”

“Huh?”

“I mean—you know. After filming ends.” Stupid. “We should celebrate.” Stupid. “With everyone.” _Stupid_.

He just got out of a seriously destructive relationship and would she think him insincere or heartless and did he lose his chance forever and she looks like she’s having a hard time deciding and he’s just about to take it all back and _saw_ his damn foot out of his damn mouth if he has to, but then she says, “Okay.” And her whole face lights up. “Sounds good.”

“Y-yeah? Sounds—I mean. Good. Good, I’m glad.”

 

*

 

In a matter of hours he has a private restaurant room booked for the entire cast and crew and though he knows he won’t be shopping anytime soon, he pictures Maki’s face and _sounds good_ and the price of clothing seems paltry in comparison.

Then, just as he finishes his last scene, Yuu calls.

She _calls_.

He picks up, though he’s sure something is definitely wrong. “Hello?”

“Yamashita. We need to talk.” Her voice is a raspy whisper and he instantly knows she’s been crying herself to sleep for the past few nights. Yuu doesn’t cry easily, and he’s only heard this voice _once_ during the entire time he’s known her.

“Yuu, what happened with ISSA?”

There’s a pause, and then a shrill laugh. “You know he never really mattered to me. It was always you, just you.” The last part is a whisper, a desperate, pathetic noise. It is not Abiru Yuu.

“Yuu, we’re no good together. We’ve both known this for a long time, even if we tried so hard to deny it.”

“Yamashita, I just—need you right now.”

“I—can’t.” He looks at his watch and swallows thickly. “We can’t.”

Silence. He hopes he’s gotten through to her. Then he hears her inhale sharply.

“If you don’t come meet me now I’ll call the tabloids and tell them everything about our relationship.”

“Yuu—”

“Even about the matching YT necklaces.”

“I didn’t even get those made. _You_ did.”

“But you still wore it. I have pictures.”

“Yuu, you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I’m quite prone to saying anything when I’m drunk enough. Did you forget, _Tomo_ —?”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

 

*

Yuu falls asleep so many hours and bottles and tears later, huddled over with his arm tangled into hers. By now the entire Kurosagi cast and crew must have left the restaurant, leaving only a giant bill for him to foot. He tried to leave, but Yuu cried and seemed too unstable to leave alone. When he opened his phone she screamed and shattered a vase.

It’s only now, as dawn creeps into being, that he finally has a chance to think. He flips open his phone and composes the text in his head: _Maki-chan, I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it. Something came up. I could—really use someone to talk to, though._

It’s not perfect, but it’s a start, and though it’s more than he should be allowed to ask for, it’s all he really needs.

He still doesn’t have her number.

He spends hours _daysweeks_ contacting every person who might have her number—to no avail. He’s never been as good at finding her.

And regrets number infinities.

 

 

 

_v. Impossibilities_

In December he gets a call from Yu. “Hey, Meisa-chan is in your upcoming drama special, right?”

“Who?”

“Kuroki Meisa? She was in the final _One Missed Call_ movie that came out this summer.”

Oh. Well he had seen _that_.

“Don’t you _ever_ look at your cast list, Yamashita?”

“Not really.” The optimist wouldn’t allow it. At Yu’s disapproving silence, he adds, “I’ve been busy, okay?”

“Really?”

_Not really_. “Where did you even meet this Kuroki, anyway?”

“Well…that is,” Yu coughs, unsuccessfully sidestepping the issue. Yu’s always had a terrible tell, especially concerning—

“Wait a minute, you met her at those secret _hafu_ parties you keep having, didn’t you?”

“They’re not _secret_ —”

“Then why won’t you invite Jin and me? Or at least just me?”

There’s a good long silence.

“ _Hafu_ -girls are hot,” Yamapi whines, piling on the desperation. Surely Yu will take pity on him now.

“That’s why.” Or not. “And that’s also why I’m asking you to look after Meisa-chan. She’s like a little sister to me and, well I guess it’s not like she can’t take care of herself…”

“What if _I_ go after her?”

There’s another long silence and Yamapi thinks he may have crossed a line, but then Yu laughs. _Hard_. For entirely too long to not be insulting. “Honestly? You’re not really her type.”

“Shouldn’t it be worded ‘she’s not _your_ type’?”

“I said what I said. Hey, tell her I said hi. She’s a sweetheart.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

*

 

It’s pretty easy to spot Kuroki Meisa when he walks into the studio on the first day of filming. Most of the cast is male, and out of the remaining actresses—well, _hafu_ -girls are hot. So it’s with ease and admittedly a little swagger he walks right up to her and says, smoothly, “Um, Kuroki Meisa, right? It’s nice to—”

“What do you want?”

“Uh? I just—wanted to introduce myself. I’m—”

“I know who you are.” Her eyebrows narrow so quickly he literally takes a step back in surprise. It feels like she’s just stabbed him. _With her eyebrows_. “But that doesn’t mean I care.” And then she walks away. From _him_. Yamashita Tomohisa. Just like that!

 

*

 

He calls Yu in the last stall of the bathroom in the studio. “U-kun?”

“Yeah?”

“ _Bite me_.”

“What?”

“Your little sweetheart Meisa? She’s _psychotic_ —”

“Meisa-chan is _not_ psychotic. What’s with you?”

“What’s with _me_? I just tried saying hi to her and she nearly _stabbed_ me!”

“…With what?”

_Her eyebrows_ doesn’t seem like a good response. “Never mind that, she’s _awful_!”

“That doesn’t sound like Meisa-chan, maybe she was just in a bad mood?”

“That kind of girl knows no good mood. I sensed her aura, U-kun. _Bad_ aura.”

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic. Try talking to her again, I’m sure it’s all in your head.”

“…Fine.”

 

*

 

He doesn’t get his next chance until right before their first scene together. Taking a deep breath he taps her on the shoulder and puts on his most becoming smile. “Kuroki-san, you look really nice in your costume.”

She turns and lush red lips curve slightly, shyly, and _she really is quite lovely and maybe Yu is right and it’s all in his head_ and then she opens her mouth and says, “Why thank you, Yamagama-kun.” Yama _gama_?! “It’s a shame you don’t get to wear a topknot, though. I would have loved to see you half-bald.”

_Half-bald_?!

“It’s very unbecoming to stare with your mouth open, Yama _jama_ -kun.” And though her eyes are bright, her mouth twists in a particularly sinister way and _oh my god those are inhumanly sharp teeth she is going to kill him in his sleep and_ —

“Yamashita-san, Kuroki-san, you’re both needed on set.”

“Thank you, AD-san, I’m coming.” The shy, saccharine smile is back on her lips and as she flounces off before them, Yamapi takes the AD by the arm to steady weak knees.

“Are you okay, Yamashita-san?”

“Just—not enough sleep,” Yamapi wheezes, the wind knocked out of him.

At least he doesn’t have to _talk_ to her in the scene.

But the second the director yells “Cut!” and the cameras stop rolling, Meisa glances in his direction and he swears she is _going to kill him_ from just the look in her eyes.The rifle in her hands—wooden prop or not—does not make him feel any better.

 

*

 

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you _Jyannis_ -types?” Yu offers later that night. Unhelpfully. “You guys have quite the reputation, you know.”

“Because the D-Boys are _so_ different.”

 

*

 

“Good morning, Ku—”

Meisa yawns. In his face. And then turns to greet some of the younger actors.

Maybe Yu was right, maybe she really does hate Jyannis-types.

“Ah, Tanaka-kun, good morning. It’s becoming very cold these days, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes, it is!” Koki replies with a stupid grin on his face.

Or maybe Yu is an idiot.

“Good morning, Yamashita-kun!”

“Oh, hey Fujigaya,” he replies distractedly, still looking to see if Meisa will snap Koki’s neck in two.

“Mm, you noticed her, too, huh? Meisa-san sure is pretty, isn’t she?”

 “ _No_.”

 

*

 

“You know, Tanaka’s not exactly the most _Jyannis_ -type person—”

“It is not just about being a _Jyannis_ ,” Yamapi hisses, noise reverberating throughout the bathroom stall. “She has it out for me alone, I swear.”

“I still think you’re overreacting. So she’s bad with names and is a little blunt and yawns. She’s only human, Yamashita.”

“Is she, U-kun? _Is_ she?”

“Listen, I’ve got to go—I’ll listen to your conspiracy theories later, okay?”

“Wait, U-kun!” The phone cuts dead and Yamapi hangs his head in defeat. There might not be a later.

The toilet in the stall next to him flushes and after a few echoing footsteps the tap runs at full blast. The sound of running water is calming. Until a voice rings out, “Ah, Yonemura-kun.”

“That’s _too_ different!” he cries, kicking the stall door open. “Actually, what are you even doing here?”

“You don’t read very much, do you, Yoshida-kun,” Meisa replies, drying her hands on a paper towel. She opens the bathroom door and points to the piece of paper taped onto the front. It reads: “Temporary Women’s Bathroom until further notice.”

He avoids her for the rest of the day, and when the female actresses and staff members giggle and titter as he passes, he pretends not to notice.

 

*

 

“Maybe she was having another bad day?”

“Maybe she _eats souls_.”

“Well, it was a pretty mild reaction to you being in the girl’s bathroom. I didn’t think you were that kind of person—”

“ _I didn’t see the sign, okay_!?” He sighs and sniffs lightly. “I still don’t understand why she hates me, U-kun. How can she hate me? Nobody hates me. It’s—it’s impossible!”

Yu sighs, too. “So. Toma’s cell is still disconnected, huh?”

“You both clearly do not understand the extent of my pain.” He sighs a second time. “Jin always agreed with me. I miss him.”

“Me too.”

“ _Hey_.”

“Maybe you should just _ask_ her if you did something to offend her if you’re so desperate to know why she hates you.”

“Did Little Red Riding Hood ask why the wolf ate her grandmother? _No_. Because wolves are stupid and evil and—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“They _eat_ people!”

The dial tone beeps in response.

 

*

 

“Good morning, Kuroki-san.”

The plastic smile on her face melts clean off. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

It’s the last straw. “Why do you hate me?”

She blinks in surprise, but her eyebrows quickly regain command of her face. “What have you done for me _not_ to hate you?”

“What have I done for you to hate me?!”

She shrugs and walks away, waving a hand behind her. “Figure it out, Glass Eyes.”

“G- _Glass Eyes_?!”

 

*

 

Yu’s phone is suspiciously disconnected that night.

 

*

 

“Do you like Meisa-chan or something?”

Yamapi spits out his rice. “What? _No_.” He wipes the grains from his face. “And when did you start calling her Meisa- _chan_?”

Fujigaya smirks. “Are you jealous?”

“Never.”

“You spend an awful lot of time trying to talk to her, though.”

“I was just trying to be polite.” Yamapi averts his gaze to where Koki and Meisa are eating lunch together. “Besides, I think Koki likes her. I wouldn’t do that to him.”

_Again_.

 

*

 

In a week and a half all of Meisa’s scenes are filmed and Yamapi finally feels like he can walk into the studio without the fear of _imminent doom_. It feels like the sky’s the limit. He never has to see Kuroki Meisa again and in two weeks he will get a call from Johnny-san.

“You, get ready for countdown.”

 

*

 

He’s the last to arrive on December 31st. In the dressing room, Shige is helping Tegoshi with his hair, Koyama is pouring tea, and Masuda is practicing his dance steps while Ryo looks on with a frown.

“You’re late,” Ryo announces without turning. “And you look like crap.”

Yamapi smiles.

NEWS is back.

 

*

 

He meets her again in the new year, not even a month later. Not-even-a-month too soon.

He’s high off the adrenaline from countdown, so when Toma decides he wants to race all the way to Yu’s birthday-slash-New-Year’s extravaganza, Yamapi actually agrees—and wins. He knocks on the lounge door triumphantly only to be met with Kuroki Meisa’s smiling face.

“What are _you_ doing here?” The sweet smile instantly sours.

How things remain unchanged.

“Nice to see you too, Kuroki. Yu happens to be one of my best friends—of course I’d be here for his party.”

“Oh how very nice. I’m glad there are people who will be your friends.” She doesn’t even finish her sentence before turning her back to him.

“You know,” Yamapi starts, but Meisa never gets to know what he knows as Toma finally catches up to him and Yu chooses that moment to tackle them both into a hug.

“Yamashita! Toma! I’m glad you made it!” he cries, already pink in the face. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’re wasted, aren’t you?” Toma laughs.

Yu presses his index finger against his thumb. “Just a little bit.”

It sounds like a good plan.

 

*

 

Two hours and three drinking contests later finds Yamapi pleasantly drunk and fumbling toward the bathroom. He closes his eyes and sighs in relief, thinks even Kuroki Meisa won’t spoil this night, not when NEWS is back and he can get drunk with his best friends and nothing in the world seems impossible anymore.

A toilet flushes behind him. “Still don’t read, do you?”

_Impossible_.

He hastily zips his pants and turns just in time to see Meisa emerge from a stall. “W-What are you doing in the men’s bathroom, Kuroki?!”

“This is the _women’s_ bathroom, Glass Eyes.”

“No, no, _no_. If this is the women’s bathroom, why are there _urinals_?”

“…That’s a handicap sink.”

He doesn’t want to look. But then Meisa raises one sharply defined eyebrow and he turns around. There are nozzles on the urinal in front of him. And a faucet.

_Fuck_.

Meisa glances in his direction before turning the tap on the sink furthest from him. “I can’t believe Marina ever liked someone like him,” she mutters under her breath.

The sound of running water crashes over him and breathing suddenly doesn’t seem like an option. “What did you say?”

“Hm?”

He inhales sharply, finally, and his body moves quicker than his brain as he grabs her by the arm. “What did you say, Kuroki?”

“Augh! Let go of me you didn’t even wash your hands!”

“Kuroki. What. Did. You. Say?” he repeats a third time, desperately. He doesn’t loosen his grip.

She meets his eyes, sharp and furious, but he can’t look away—won’t. “I said, ‘I can’t believe Marina ever liked someone like _you_.’”

“How do you know that name?”

“What?”

“ _How do you know that name_?”

“How do you think I know it, stupid? She’s my best friend.”

“But—”

“The question is do _you_ know anything?”

“I—” he takes a step backward, reeling from a combination of alcohol, shock and her palpable hostility.

“She broke up with her middle school boyfriend of three years for good one summer. And do you know _why_? Because almost every day that summer she came back with a bright smile and a new story about some—some _pink_ boy. When I asked if this pink boy was the reason she broke up with Takeshi she just smiled and continued reading _Dragon Ball_. She never read comic books before that summer. But then one day it stopped. The stories, the comics—the smiles. And she never said anything about him again.”

“I didn’t—it was a mistake—”

“Yes, it _was_ a mistake.” She gives him a pointed look. “But she moved on and everything was fine except one day she calls me, breathless and upset, says, ‘He’s going to be in the drama.’ She almost refused the role but I told her she shouldn’t let you get in her way.”

“I never _wanted_ to be in her way, I just wanted—”

“Well if you _wanted_ to fix things you had six months, Yamashita. Six months to _unfuck_ things. Two different dramas, two different chances. Two more chances than you deserve. But no. You didn’t do anything. Except fuck anything pretty on two legs.”

“ _I thought she was with Kame_. I thought—”

“So you blame other people and other circumstances and run when things don’t go the slightest bit your way? Coward.”

“I _didn’t_ run—”

“Who are you kidding.” It’s not a question.

He doesn’t have a reply. The bathroom spins above him and he falls onto the sticky floor on his hands and knees, feeling sick to his stomach

“Thought so,” Meisa sneers in disgust.

“She had a boyfriend—she lied,” he protests feebly. “She told me her name was Marina.”

The door bangs shut and just when he thinks he’s alone, he hears her voice, “Hey, you. Do you really think my name is Kuroki Meisa?”

“Huh?”

“Kuroki Meisa is a stage name.”

“So?”

“Are you really that naïve or just plain stupid?” she snaps.

“ _What_?”

“The company always tells us to introduce ourselves by our stage names—it’s to maintain our image to the public. But Maki—she’s never been the best at following rules. Rather, she’s just too honest.”

His stomach lurches into his throat. “Maki—Maki is the stage name?”

“Yes.” And with that she leaves him, a pathetic mess of a man lying crumpled on the floor of the women’s bathroom.

 

*

 

“Kuroki?”

“Who—oh hell, Glass Eyes is that you? What do you—who even _gave_ you my number? It was Tanaka, wasn’t it? I swear if I wasn’t so drunk that night I would have never given him my—”

“You’re right, Kuroki.”

“Ha?”

“I’m a coward and all I’m good at is running away and blaming my problems on other people and things out of my control—but I know. It’s my fault. All of it. It was my stupid misunderstanding of everything—especially her.But if you think there’s anyway she would ever want to see or talk to me, please, Kuroki, just tell me.”

“She deserves much better than you.”

“I agree.” He takes a deep breath and covers his face with his free hand. “But what she deserves isn’t really the question here. It’s—what might make her happy. If we agree on one thing, Kuroki, is that we both want her to be happy, right? And if—if there’s even the slightest chance she could be happy with me, shouldn’t you let me know? For her sake.”

“Please.”

“Five, five, five, four, zero, nine, one, zero, zero, one.”

“W-what?”

“I will only repeat myself once.” He scrambles for a pen and pad of paper. When she finishes, he looks at the numbers that have eluded him for three years and he can’t believe his eyes.

He always knew his birthday was something special.

“Did you die?” She sounds hopeful.

“N-no.”

There’s strangled noise on the other end of the line, and just when he thinks she’s already hung up, she adds, begrudgingly. “Good luck, Glass Eyes.”

“W-wait Kuroki.”

“What is it _now_?”

“Thank you,” he hesitates, mind running a mile a minute. “And answer just one more question for me.”

“You’re really pushing it.”

“ _Please_.”

She sighs and he half wonders if she really will hang up this time. “Okay. One question.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_vi. Hello Yourself_

 

He wonders how long it’s been since he’s been here. There’s no park bench and the apartments have long since finished renovating—the grass is withered and the ground barren.

How time goes on.

He fidgets, can’t stand still, legs twitching for movement, action, something. The wool scarf irritates his neck, the wind nips at his nose and ears, and his throat feels bone dry. He makes his way toward the vending machine; the display has faded from endless days in the summer sun. He shifts the brown paper box in his hands into one arm and takes out his wallet.

It’s exact change only.

He doesn’t have a single measly one-hundred yen. He’s about to give up when there’s a hand reaching past him, the smell of cherries as a coin jangles all the way down the slot.

“ _Pocari, pocari, float away into the sky_ —huh.” He can feel her breath on his skin.

The machine lights up. He presses the first button he sees and turns around. “ _Like the clouds in the summer breeze_.”

And then he sees her in front of him, not a vision on his television screen or a distant memory. Just her. He opens his mouth to speak but can’t catch up to his mind. _Hi. Hello. Hey. Hi. Hi. Hey?_

“H-Hello.”

“Hello yourself.” She takes a step back, looks past him to the still whirring machine. “It seems out.”

He glances behind him and sees nothing in the drink slot, presses every button to no avail, even the coin return. Nothing. “Sorry, it ate your money,” he blurts out.

“What did you call me here for, Yamashita-san?”

What hurts more than the suffix is the recognition of the tone of her voice.

He has nothing else to lose. “Here.”

Her mouth forms a familiar, soft pink ‘o’ at the sight and little impossibilities tug at his heart. “It’s even the right size,” she breathes in wonder, staring inside the box.

“I had a little help.”

When she looks up at him, there’s almost a smile on her face, but the corners of her lips stop short. “But it’s a little cold for flip-flops, don’t you think?”

“Ah.” Right. It’s March, but winter hasn’t yet thawed. Of course it’s too cold. Stupid stupid _stupid_. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t have an answer. _One_ answer. There are too many things he wants to apologize for, too many things he regrets, too many things he wishes never happened.

“Goodbye, Yamashita—kun.”

She’s not one of them.

But she is walking away, again, for possibly the last time ever and his heart careens against his chest, telling him to do _somethinganythingnow_.

“You know—I don’t really understand how Voltaire can say this is supposed to be the best of all possible worlds.” He rips the scarf from his neck and fumbles with it in his hands. “This—this doesn’t feel best at all.”

“He wasn’t saying it was. He was satirizing people who—” she cuts off and chocolate brown eyes widen. “You read it.” It’s not a question.

“I read them all,” he admits, before amending, softly, “well, except Lolita.”

“But why?” Her eyes are wide and unblinking and all he wants to do is look away or run away but he knows he can’t. Won’t. Not anymore. “Why do you keep reappearing and disappearing into my life. Why do you keep making me— _why am I here, Yama_ —”

“Call me Tomohisa.”

The box drops from her hands. “Why?”

“ _I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun._ ”

She covers her mouth with her hands. Her eyes are unreadable.

“Maki.”

She shakes her head.

“ _Mari_ —”

“If I could kamehameha you, I would,” she hiccups finally. “In a heartbeat.”

“And I would deserve it.”

“I still read every summer away.”

“Maybe I’ll just have to read it away with you.”

“Maybe I’ll hold you to that.”

“Maybe you won’t have to.”

And suddenly they’re laughing and smiling and he removes her hands from her face and just holds them and they’re soft and warm and everything he remembers and something drops in the pit of his stomach. He lowers their hands and takes a deep breath.

“M-Marina. This is real, right?” He squeezes her hands, as if trying to prove something. “I’m not going to wake up soon and realize this is all some dream, right?”

“It’s real, Tomohisa.” Her smile widens and her eyes crinkle at the corners as she squeezes his hands back. “It’s real.”

And if anyone were paying attention they would see a boy and a girl who couldn’t stop smiling at each other, and a pair of bright yellow flip-flops hidden beneath blades of weathered grass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_vii. Happiness is Coming_

“I miss the park bench.”

“Really? I kind of like it this way. When you lean back and close your eyes, lift your feet so they just barely touch the grass, it feels like you’re—”

“Walking on air?”

“Shouldn’t you be reading your own book?” she asks, holding her protectively against her chest and sticking her tongue out.

“You’re the one who lowered it so I could see it,” he mutters in return. “Besides, this book you gave me is so boring—and _long_. Is he going to kill the woman or not? He needs to make up his mind quicker.”

“His indecisiveness is the main pint of the novel, though—it’s all psychological. And you can really feel the turmoil—”

He yawns.

“Okay, fine,” she mutters, nose wrinkled in distaste. “The book _I’m_ reading is called _Castle in the Air_. It’s by Dianna Wynne Jones.”

“Oh, the Howl woman?”

She smiles. “Yes, the Howl woman. This one is actually a sequel to _Howl’s Moving Castle_ , but the main character is a carpet seller named Abdullah. He’s clever and very handsome, almost beautiful—he actually gets mistaken for a woman at one point. Abdullah eventually falls in love at first sight with the woman of his dreams, but when she gets taken away, he stops at nothing to get her back. He’s kind of the opposite of Howl in that respect, I guess. He’s very brave.”

“Wait, if it’s about some carpet guy, then how is this a sequel?”

“We-e-e-ell, it takes place in the same land, and—you’ll just have to wait until I finish it.”

“Maybe you’ll just have to read faster.”

She taps him on the nose. “Maybe.”

She falls back into the silence of reading, occasionally turning a page, and he closes his eyes and breathes her in. She smells like home.

“Say, it’s going to be my birthday soon,” he says finally, feeling the breeze run over his face and her fingers in his hair.

“Mm. We were filming on your birthday last year, too, right?”

“Will you be there this time?”

“Ah, _Tokyo Shounen_ might need me.” The look of dejection must be clearly visible on his face because she then adds, brightly. “What do you want for your birthday?”

“It won’t come true anyway,” he replies petulantly, averting his gaze.

“I’ll—try to make it. Honestly.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.” He glances up at her face and sees her eyes crinkle and thinks he’s never felt more significant in his entire life. “Did I ever tell you what my birthday means?”

“ _Happiness is coming_ —isn’t it?” When his eyes widen, she smiles sheepishly. “I like reading, remember?”

Later he will understand that he will perhaps never run out of things to learn about this girl.

Today he learns she tastes like cherries and eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> When the idea of this story began in 2008, from a prompt I don't even remember anymore, it was supposed to be a short-ish thing. Something that wasn't supposed to grow and simmer and sit and wait for three years till I (finally) finished it. Something that wasn't supposed to be an over 10,000 words thing (which was astonishing in its time, although maybe less so now). But what this story always _was_ was a love song for Saff. So it grew and simmered and sat and waited till I had had enough and wrote and wrote and then, terrified it was no good, bawled about it to [tinyangl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyangl), who was ever-patient and ever-lovely. And then I printed it, all 56 pages in Garamond 12, double-sided and hand-fed through a very old printer, and shipped it in a bright yellow folder, nestled in a package of love sent to Korea. ♥
> 
> So yes, the writing is rather old (as you might tell from the NEWS bits that are so sad in retrospect) and very much untouched (apologies), and the fandom for this particular pairing is not quite what it used to be, nor is my own love for them, but as this was my last hurrah for my first het RPF OTP, and again, for Saff, whom I love, I did want to post it somewhere, someday, finally. So here it is. 
> 
> This story was also the first (and only) to have its own soundtrack (complete with a poorly photoshopped song list!) and extensive research/notes, but most of those have been lost through multiple laptop changes.
> 
> Thank you for reading. ♥ Please inform me of any errant typos or formatting issues as AO3 seems to hate my old word documents.


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